Even Geniuses Can Get Sick
by dynamiteScribbler
Summary: Okay, I didn't edit this, like, at all. I don't have a beta, so I hope you guys enjoy it anyway! Sherlock, being the stubborn ass he is, won't admit he's sick. Then the power goes out.


Much as he would hate to admit it, although Sherlock's intellect and altogether mental status was much better than any average person's, his immune system was barely above the norm. Needless to say, after a nearly month-long case without more than a few hours' rest every week, something was bound to wiggle its way into the detective's system. It became apparent one morning when Sherlock walked into the kitchen and John wasn't met with a deep, thrumming baritone, but rather a muted, nasally groan.

John hummed quietly to himself in the kitchen as he stirred his mug of tea. It was a cold morning, as it had been the morning before that, and the morning before that. The temperatures in London were steadily dropping since Winter had begun, and, bundled in a thick sweater, John was feeling the chill. It was supposed to start snowing tonight, and he was not looking forward to it. He turned as he heard Sherlock pad into the living room and slur his greeting. He cocked an eyebrow at the detective, swathed in the thick comforter from his bed as he poked at the low embers in the fireplace. "Um, Sherlock," he started curiously. "Are you feeling okay? You sound a bit-"  
"I'm fine," the detective cut him off with a snap, though his thickened voice dulled the effect. "It's just a bit cold in here is all." He continued prodding at the fire as John rolled his eyes and made him his own mug. Setting his own drink on the coffee table, she shooed Sherlock away from the fireplace, handing him his own and stirring up the embers, adding more wood to coax the flames up once again. Sherlock took the cup in his blanketed hands with a squinted look, but didn't say anything as he sat back on the couch and watched the doctor build the flames.  
John stood, a few of his joints popping from the cold, and sat back down in his chair, picking up his discarded paper and ruffling the pages so they stood straight. "Thank you," Sherlock's voice drifted from the couch. "It's no problem," John replied coolly, leaving it at that.

At 1:43 Lestrade called from the station, asking to take the pair to lunch as thanks for their help on the case. It was, "the least he could do", as he said, it being one of the longest cases they'd taken. John moved the receiver from his ear and covered the mouthpiece, relaying the invite to a grumpy Sherlock. "Tell Lestrade thank you, but I think I'm going to stay home for today. It'd be best if you went, John, I know how much it disturbs you when I play my violin. It will be an optimal time to rehearse while you're gone." Seeing right through his terrible lie, John rolled his eyes and returned the phone to his ear. "Looks like it'll just be you and I then, Lestrade. Sherlock's being... difficult." He could feel Sherlock's disgruntled look on his back as he thanked Lestrade and hung up, going to the door to grab his coat and walk the few blocks to Lestrade's restaurant of choice. "You could always change your mind," he offered as he shoved his arm though his sleeve and fixed his collar, tugging it into place. "I'm aware," a monotone drawled from the living room.  
John rolled his eyes again and huffed a bit. "Alright, then. It's supposed to snow tonight. You know you should probably take some medi-"  
"Goodbye, John." With a pinched look, John opened the door of 221B, letting in a gust of cold that bit through his coat and sweater, and left for lunch.

The sky was already beginning to drop heavy, wet flakes by the time John headed for home around 4. The bell clanged loudly, the scent of chinese food wafting into the cold street, as he called back to Lestrade to thank him and shut the door against the wind as he pulled up the collar of his coat. Shoving his fists deep into his pockets, he started home, glancing at the darkening clouds that continued to drop their load, one flake catching him in the eye. "Ow. Dammit," he muttered, directing his eyes down to the snowy pavement that had already accumulated about a quarter of an inch. Traffic crawled as he picked up his already brisk pace, honking when someone didn't stop quite soon enough.  
John shook the snow from his hair and smacked the sides of his shoes on the doorframe of 221B before twisting the knob to a mild flash of warmth, burning his chilled ears and nose. He slid his shoes off and set them aside to leave in front of the fire. He paused as he slid his coat off, hushing what little sound he was making. The slightest rumble caught his attention, making his brow furrow as he hung his coat and stooped to grab his shoes. Padding into the livingroom, he was met with a sight that struck him. His violin case untouched, Sherlock was curled on the sofa, half sitting, half lying against the armrest, his upper back propped against it. The lightest snore, almost a purr, escaped his lips. A huge smirk cracked across John's face.  
I'm fine, my ARSE," he laughed quietly to himself as he walked over to the once again dying embers and proceeded to coax out another small flame. Trying not to disturb the tired man, John went back to his chair to read. Sherlock mewled out a tiny whimper in his sleep, his brow twitching, and John's lips tightened into a smile. "Go back to sleep, kitty cat. You're not better, yet," he muttered with a grin and opened his book.

About 7:30, the world goes black, shocking John from his trance-like reading to a world enveloped in darkness. He sat up, startled, looking around and finding Sherlock's frame in the moonlight reflecting through the windows from the snow. Yawning and stretching, he stood, cracking all of his lazy joints that were keen to sit for so long. He rubbed his eyes and looked at his watch. the fire crackled dully, the few flames left wiggling in a last attempt at life. Chilled toes tingled even through socks against the bite of the cold floor as he stood and went to the window, checking the streets outside. For it being so early, the lamp-lit streets were nearly deserted compared to the usual bustle. Three inches of snow had fallen to top the measly powder from that afternoon, plenty to knock out the electricity. John stifled a yawn. He turned back to the kitchen and tread carefully as to not knock into anything. Rifling through the drawers, he was finally rewarded with a simple yellow flashlight. He clicked it on and a circle of yellowed light appeared on the floor before him, leading him back over to the ill man on the couch. "Sherlock, Sherlock," he whispered quietly, prodding at the detective's shoulder area, still engulfed in his blanket. Sherlock groaned and unleashed a coughing fit of legend. John placed a hand on his shoulder to help ease it, hearing the mucus shift and slide sickly in Sherlock's system. He pinched the bridge of his nose at how ridiculously stubborn he could be. "Stupid, stupid."  
He walked back into the kitchen and opened the almost bare cupboard for cold medication and brought the pills and some half-warmed tea to the sick man. With some prodding and coaxing on his part, John was able to get Sherlock to swallow them before his head fell defeatedly back against the armrest. His eyes flickered under their lids, a slight sheen of sweat across the top of his forehead. He coughed again, less violently, but still wet and thick. "Sherlock, you're not going to like this, at all, really, but you need to get up." Sherlock practically moaned at that, and John figured it'd be a miracle to have him just sit up. John slid a hand under Sherlock's back and lifted him a bit, eventually getting him to sit normally on the couch with what little help Sherlock could give. He stared hopelessly and the blanketed mess in front of him, exhausting every possibility of getting him to bed, finally deciding to just suddenly hoist the other man up into his arms. Sherlock let out a startled, strangled yelp and John carried him to his room, almost bridal-style, but decided about halfway there that it wasn't quite so bad. He curled up against John's warm chest as he carried him down the hall, making John's face turn a light shade of pink in the darkness, and if he held the sick bundle a bit tighter for a moment before depositing him onto his bed, then who was there to know?

John didn't want to leave Sherlock on his own, he looked so absolutely small in his bed, shivering slightly, but he didn't seem to have much of a choice. He tugged Sherlock's other blankets up around his neck and placed a hand on his shoulder. Sherlock whined quietly and curled onto his side, and John hoped that sleep would take him quickly. He walked back to his own room in the dark, leaving the flashlight in Sherlock's room in case he needed it during the night, put on his pajamas, and crawled into his own icy bed. Sherlock was so slim. He hoped he was warm enough tonight. Maybe he'd check on him later, just to be sure he was alright. As for right then, John let the quiet and absolute dark engulf his thoughts and fell asleep.

John woke up to small tremors and quick little shudders of breath. It took him a moment to register where he was and why his bed the form next to him was trembling. "Sherlock?"

The detective was still bundled in his own blanket and underneath each of the doctors and he was still shivering like a small dog. His teeth chattered in spastic rhythm as he replied, "Hel-l-lo, J-John."  
"Sherlock! For the love of God, you're freezing!"  
"I'm aw-ware."

John barely had time to thank God that Sherlock was this coherent. He took the detective's face between his palms, pulling back when he felt how icy they were. "God, Sherlock, why didn't you come and get me sooner? You're going to give yourself bloody hypothermia," he chastised as he tore open the folds of Sherlock's blanket, making him flinch. God, he was frozen. John tugged the man closer, rubbing his palms up and down his arms to try to warm him.  
"I didn- didn't want to w-wake you." John continued to try to warm him, taking his hands in his and rubbing furiously. It seemed to be helping, but, God, Sherlock was still so cold.  
"You bloody arse. You're going to kill yourself at this rate. Turn," he commanded, and Sherlock gave him an apprehensive look before he obeyed and turned his back to the man. John wrapped his arms around the detective, coating him in warmth. Sherlock's eyes were widened, and he would have turned red if he wasn't so cold, but he melted instantly into the feeling and a sigh escaped his lips./

John breathed warm air onto the back of the detective's neck, making his body twitch. He mumbled more to himself than Sherlock. "Knew I shouldn't have left you alone. It's the dead of Winter and here I am, Mr, Bright idea, too afraid of a bit of awkwardness to make sure his friend doesn't freeze to death."  
Sherlock chuckled. "Yes, of course, John. I'm going to die from a simple infection and it will be all your fault."

John scoffed at him. "Well you were getting close enough to it for my taste."  
"Oh, come on, John." He could practically feel the eye roll and the look to suggest his IQ was much lower than usual. "I'm not going to die on you." His words began slurring themselves together and he stifled a yawn. "It's just a bug, and a bit too cold is all."  
"Ahh, so you admit you're sick?"  
John could feel Sherlock's muscles pull a bit as he made a face. "Yes, John, I'm allowed to get sick every once in a while. Just because my brain is more advanced doesn't mean my body's defense must be as well. Now my front is cold."  
Sherlock shifted over so he's facing John, wrapping his arms around his waist and curling his head into his neck. John's face flushed darkly, heating the rest of his face. His arms went slack around the detective, who looked up with heavy-lidded eyes to give him a sleepy puzzled look. He frowned. "John, I'm still cold."  
"Sorry, I just- I mean, I- ummm, I jus-"  
Sherlock slowly pulled his hand from his cocoon and covered John's mouth before resting his chin on the doctor's shoulder, breathing against his ear in shallow breaths. "John, just shut up."  
John's face nearly went aflame when the detective then took the back of his neck and guided his head down so their lips met. Sherlock's were slightly chapped and cold, his chilled nose brushing his cheek, and the doctor let out a squeak before he melted against the other man. His fingers trailed up to the finer hairs along the detective's hairline, tracing little circles in his curls. He tasted of cold tea, lethargy, and sleep, and it was intoxicating.  
But Sherlock broke the kiss all too soon, leaving him with empty air. He chuckled at John's flushed face and lost expression. "I'm not going to get you sick as well, John, much as it seems that you would like it."  
John pulled a face and growled softly, pulling Sherlock back in for another kiss before letting him go. "Much as I would, go to bed, Sherlock."


End file.
